And up through the green aisle climbing

(Each shrine like a counted bead), We heard, from above, the swaying And mystical chant of the creed.

Then the dead seemed the only living,
And the real seemed the wraith,
And we yielded ourselves to the vision
We saw with the eye of Faith.

Then she said, "Let us go no farther:
'T is fit that we make farewell
While forest and lake and mountain
Are under the vesper spell."

As we rested, the leafy silence
Broke like a cloud at play,
And a browned and burdened woman
Passed, singing, down the way.

'T was a song of health and labor,—
Of childlike gladness, blent
With the patience of the toiler
That tyrants call content.

"Nay, this is the word we have waited,"
I said, "that a year and a sea
From now, in our doom of exile,
Shall echo of Italy."

Just then what a burst from the bosquetAs a bird might have found its soul! And each by the halt of the heart-throb Knew 't was the rossignol.

Then we drew to each other nearer
And drank at the grey wall's verge
The sad, sweet song of lovers,-
Their passion and their dirge.

And the carol of Toil below us
And the pæan of Prayer above
Were naught to the song of Sorrow,
For under the sorrow was Love.

Alas! for the dear remembrance
We chose for an amulet:
The one that is left to keep it—

Ah! how can he forget?

ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON.